


and now it's time to leave and turn to dust

by paintngoldtrash



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: No redemption, Other, abuse mention, finding closure, ptsd mention, set years after love never dies, this is quite indulgent im sorry, title from to build a home - the cinematic orchestra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintngoldtrash/pseuds/paintngoldtrash
Summary: In the deep, dark parts of the forest, in which no one dared to go, lived a man, wrinkled and withered with age, in a cottage he named “The Prima Donna.” There wasn’t much to it; a bedroom and a kitchen, as well as a combined living and dining room. It was made out of brick, and practically growing into the hill behind it when he found it and fixed it up, sweeping each wood floor and deweeding the outside walls. He didn’t decorate it, bar adding a small piano, which, when he found it, was incredibly creaky and out of tune. Of course, this old man fixed it up, and began composing, just like he did so many years ago- though, that is a different story entirely.





	and now it's time to leave and turn to dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very indulgent story I wrote, inspired by the fact I'm tired of seeing people romanticize what Erik did while demonizing Raoul in the same breath (which, is not to say I'm okay with Raoul in lnd at ALL). Also, I never see anything about Christine getting closure or realising that she deserves better. In the tags I did mention there's no redemption but I do mean for Erik, who is one of the main focuses of this story- there is a minor bit about Raoul getting redemption at the end!

In the deep, dark parts of the forest, in which no one dared to go, lived a man, wrinkled and withered with age, in a cottage he named “The Prima Donna.” There wasn’t much to it; a bedroom and a kitchen, as well as a combined living and dining room. It was made out of brick, and practically growing into the hill behind it when he found it and fixed it up, sweeping each wood floor and deweeding the outside walls. He didn’t decorate it, bar adding a small piano, which, when he found it, was incredibly creaky and out of tune. Of course, this old man fixed it up, and began composing, just like he did so many years ago- though, that is a different story entirely. 

 

It was this house which Christine Daae was trying to find; to make amends, if you will. She’d left the old man twice, and she felt almost guilty. Most of her decision to find him, however, was fueled by her desire to find closure. This man, whom she once knew as the Angel of Music, had ruined her life, not once but twice, and left her bleeding on the ground as he left, seemingly without a scrape. Once, she’d assumed what he did was romantic, but she was blinded by her own naivety and his charm- obsession did not equal love, ever. 

 

She was forced to bear his child, and worse, was forced to watch her husband, Raoul’s face as he looked down at their son, Gustave, believing that he was his. She felt horrible for all the things she’d done to her husband- and he’d given her everything! That, of course, wasn’t an excuse for the way he abused her, but at the time she thought she’d deserved it; her own naivety causing smoke in her eyes once again. 

 

The truth was, Christine was a romantic- she wanted to believe in everyone’s good will and intentions, which left her grasping for straws more often than not. That’s why she originally fell for the Angel of Music, who sang to her in her sleep and told her about beautiful things; and then why, later, she fell for Raoul, who promised to save her when the Angel of Music turned out to be less kind than he’d promised. She’d always been conflicted between her concepts of reality and romanticism, and as she grew older she became more cynical, though she never forgot her childish innocence. She’d realised, however, that she would never be able to be at peace until she could tell her angel all the things she’d never said; how she wanted to hate him, how she felt ripped apart from the insides because of him, how she still, after all that time, loved him, somehow. 

 

It must’ve been some mysterious Stockholm Syndrome. It had to be. 

 

The Angel of Music had lied to her repeatedly, killed people, and kidnapped both her and Raoul, with intent to kill not only Raoul but everyone else in the Paris Opera House if she didn’t “choose” him. 

 

But the Angel of Music had also taught her to sing, had given her beautiful gifts, and showed her a world she couldn’t possibly imagine, even in her wildest and most alluring dreams. He’d given her her first starring role in an opera- something she’d wanted forever. And then he’d ripped it from her hands just as she’d gotten it, barely giving her the chance to enjoy the spotlight. 

 

The romantic side of her wanted to forgive him, but she didn’t believe that she would ever be able to truly forgive him. The first time- when he let her go, when he explained to her that he was trying to fix himself and that he was sorry- she thought that maybe, after some time had passed and time allowed her to look back on it with a mature gaze, she may be able to forgive him. But then he did it again- he called her back to his lair, beckoning with a smirk and a song, and then left her feeling like she’d just been ran through with a sword. 

 

The Angel of Music had inquired for her to come to where he’d moved in America, Coney Island, and sing an aria, and Christine said yes; she truly wasn’t sure why she’d agreed. He tried to seduce her again, with his words and his hands and the music he wrote, and she’d almost acceded; falling deep into his trap once again- he was the venus flytrap, she was the fly. 

 

He’d brought Meg, Christine’s old friend from the Paris Opera House; they’d danced together, when the two of them were just ballerinas, under Madame Giry, Meg’s mother. Christine was half certain that Meg moving to America with the Angel of Music was mostly Madame Giry’s fault; Madame Giry had, in fact, brought the Angel of Music to the basement of the Paris Opera House, where he’d stayed for years. He had used the passageways and access to the ventilation systems to trick Christine into believing he was a real angel, but he was just a man. 

 

After Christine appeared at Coney Island, Meg had gotten jealous- assumedly, the Angel of Music and Meg had gotten closer over the years, and Christine was getting in the way of the two. Meg, in a jealous, dreadful rage, drew Christine to the pier and shot her in the stomach; all because of the Angel of Music. 

 

Christine was able to forgive Meg; they had been such good friends when they were younger, and Christine was only disheartened that the two had to end things on such bad terms, as Meg had disappeared after the fact, most likely assuming that Christine would press charges. 

 

Christine didn’t blame the Angel of Music for everything, and she knew that what Meg did was not his fault- he was part of the collateral damage. After she was shot, however he didn’t even stick around to wait to see how Christine was, leaving her feeling empty and alone. He treated her like a ragdoll, over and over, and in the end, it burnt her up and left her feeling over exposed. She still jumped every time she heard a door slam too loud or a voice echo through the halls. 

 

The Angel of Music ruined her. 

 

For so long, she’d tried to force herself to hate him; she wanted to hate him so horribly it hurt, but every time she thought about hating him, her brain immediately reminded her of all the lovely things he did for her in the beginning. Then, for a while, she tried to forget him entirely, but whenever she closed her eyes, she could still see him; and she could still hear his voice in the silence of their apartment; and every time she’d look into Gustave’s eyes, she saw him. 

 

As the years passed her, Christine assumed that her thoughts of the Angel of Music would lessen, and that she would draw her own conclusions and closure,  but it seemed as each day passed by agonizingly slow, she thought of him more and more, until almost all of her thoughts were comprised of  _ him.  _ It was screaming at her, antagonizing her- reminding her that she could never truly rid him from her life until she saw him one last time. 

 

Which was why, after almost twenty years, she decided to seek him out; she’d found Madame Giry again, who reluctantly gave her his address (Madame Giry was cold and distant to Christine, despite being a parental figure for Christine for so long; Christine believed that she blamed her for Meg’s disappearance, and for the Angel of Music leaving again, but she didn’t want to worry herself too much with the opinion of someone who hadn’t spoken to her in so long, especially while handling so much else). 

 

The journey to the spot in the woods was long and hard, but she eventually made it to the cottage in one piece; though, for a while she was afraid the scarred tissue on her stomach, where she was shot, would open up again. 

 

It was covered in moss, with vines and weeds growing up through the cracks of the cobblestone wall, but Christine could tell that the caretaker of the cottage tried his hardest. She took in the wood porch, a rocking chair sitting on one side, before stepping up to the door, taking two or three deep breaths before knocking; waiting for two moments as a voice behind the door- unmistakingly him- asked for her to wait outside the cottage while he got to the door. 

 

Christine worried momentarily that she’d made a gravely terrible mistake, but she couldn’t think too much of it as the door swung open, and there he stood; unmistakingly him. He had a cane in his right hand, which he leaned on as he looked at her, and his hair was graying. There was a mask on his face, like before, but it was a full-face mask, and it was cloth; what material, Christine couldn’t tell. He wasn’t dressed in a suit, like each time she’d met him, but a pair of dress slacks and a tan argyle sweater over what looked to be a plain white button-up. He had wrinkles on his forehead as he looked at her, but she could tell he had aged well; she wasn’t sure, but he had to be at least eighty. 

 

“Christine,” he whispered, switching his cane to his left hand and stepping onto the porch of his cottage. “Is it.. Is it really you?” Suddenly unable to speak, Christine nodded. “Oh, come in, come in.” He stepped back inside the house, and Christine followed him, her heart beating hard in her chest as she debated running out and never seeing him again. 

 

But no- she needed the closure. 

 

“What- what finds you here?” He asks, motioning to the table what Christine assumed was the dining room as he stepped over to the kitchen and began making tea; his hands, she could see, were shaking. It was a strange thing to notice, that made her feel vaguely powerful; she could remember all the nights sitting up, shaking herself, because she had a particularly bad memory of him. 

 

The cottage was small, from what she could see; the door opened into the dining room, with the kitchen across from it, only a step up into the kitchen dividing the two. Across from the dining room on the other side was the living room, with no door or wall dividing the living and dining rooms. There seemed to be a room on the other side of the kitchen, and dividing that and the living room was a dark hallway, which Christine couldn’t make out well from her chair. The Angel of Music turned around, bringing into the dining room two cups of tea and handing Christine one; she considered it, and then pretended to sip at it, wondering what the likelihood of him spiking it would be. She didn’t want to take any chances. 

 

“You never answered my question,” he smiled, and she could see he had taken off the mask he had been wearing at the door, and presumed that it was just one he put on to answer it. His face, as grotesque as it was, was not the thing that disturbed Christine anymore, and she looked at it with an apathetic curiosity; the corners of his mouth, where the disfiguration began, crinkled as he talked and smiled. The smile on his face didn’t change the way Christine thought of him; in fact, it made her more uneasy, and she shifted in her seat. 

 

“Madame Giry gave me your address I came here for… closure.” The word felt sticky in her mouth, and she blushed as she spoke, betraying her monotonous voice. She took in a deep breath, watching his face for any sign of discontentment or anger, though she found none. He looked curious, almost, and a bit hurt, though he quickly masked it with a small nod and a sip of his tea; though, she noted, the smile on his face had disappeared. She shifted in her chair.

 

“Okay,” he said slowly, his lips forming awkwardly as he spoke, as if he was speaking for the first time. “Closure.” 

 

“Yes.” Christine nodded for a moment, then stopped herself, feeling that it was too eager a nod, and repeated, “I came here for closure.” He nodded, his eyes narrowing just slightly, and she recognized the calculating look on his face; he was trying to figure her out, and, ultimately, trying to figure a way to keep her from reaching her goal. She shifted in her chair again, regaining her posture and sticking her chin out to show him that she meant business, and  _ only  _ business. “The things that you did to me- that you tried to do to me, even- were never okay. Ever,” she swallowed. Dully, she noted that her hands were shaking, and she laced her fingers together in her lap in an attempt to stop them from doing so, or at least to stop him from noticing. “I was sixteen, and so incredibly alone. I was lonely. And you knew that. You knew, too, that I still believed in the  _ Angel of Music _ my father said he would send for me, and you used that for your- to fulfill your convoluted fantasies.” 

 

“You were naive, Christine.” She straightened up her back and swallowed, feeling her chest tighten up, but she wasn’t going to let him make her believe it was all her fault- she wasn’t naive anymore. 

 

“Sure, I was. I was sixteen. You were fourty.” She unclasped her hands, running them along the sides of her dress. “You used the fact I didn’t know any better- that I held onto a childhood story my father told me- to get into my head. You say you were in love with me, but all you did was use me. You don’t use the people you love.”

“I seem to remember you letting Raoul use you quite a  _ lot. _ ” His voice was calculating; his eyes had narrowed more than they’d been before, and he rested his lips with a slight pout, his bottom lip jutting out slightly as he turned down his lips. Christine took in a deep, calming breath, and continued. 

“What Raoul did doesn’t matter. We-  _ I-  _ am talking about you, and only you.” She ran her fingers along her palm, calming herself; she wasn’t as anxious anymore, she was angry; Raoul had abused her, yes, and yet, she only believed it was okay  _ because  _ of the man currently sitting before her- he gave her such a convoluted fantasy of what love is supposed to be, and she, being a young, innocently naive little sixteen year old, believed him. She went along with what he said because he claimed to be an angel- she thought that angels couldn’t hurt you. Oh, how wrong she’d been… Her voice grew cold as she continued to speak. “You used me. You  _ lied  _ to me, repeatedly. I was a lonely little girl lost in the great big city of Paris, without a father or a mother or  _ anyone  _ to take care of me, and you used that to get close to me!”

The look in his eyes had become one of humour, and his pursed lips had turned to a smirk. “You had Madame Giry, didn’t you?” 

“That doesn’t matter!” She stood up, stomping her foot, the teacup that she’d picked up while talking crashing to the floor and smashing, spilling hot tea all over her shoes, but she didn’t care. “You knew I was lonely! I didn’t know what to do! For fuck’s sake- I was a  _ child,  _ you were twice my age!” She waved her arms around frantically as she ranted, pointing an accusatory finger at him as he began speaking. 

“Is this why you came here? To yell at me?” The humourous look on his face had disapparated, and in its place was a look of apathetic curiosity. He didn’t move to clean up the tea she spilled or the broken glass, but he did take a napkin and wipe where the tea had splashed onto his wristwatch. Contemptuously, she wished it would break the watch.

Christine realised, then, that coming to his cottage in the forest wouldn’t do anything; it wouldn’t help her sleep better at night, or give her closure, because he didn’t care. He never did care about her, not in the way he said he did. Maybe he’d thought he did, or maybe he’d wanted to, be he hadn’t, ever, loved her, or even cared about her. She was just a toy to him. 

“You were lonely,” she said after a moment, opening her mouth slowly and swallowing. “You were lonelier than I was. And you feasted on the fact that I saw you as a lifeline. I was just a pawn to you, a toy to play with when you got bored.” She thought about Ubaldo Piangi, the leading male in most of the Opera House’s production until her “Angel” had killed him, during a performance of the Angel’s own opera,  _ Don Juan,  _ and then of the stagehand, Bouquet, he’d killed to send a message to the new managers,  Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, when they wouldn’t conform to his rules. “We all were. You didn’t care- the Opera House was your production, your own opera, and we were your characters, to do with what you will, what you wanted.” 

The look on his face had not changed, and she turned away from him, stepping over the glass and toward the door. 

“Did you get what you came for, then?” She turned to look at him again; when he spoke, his voice had cracked just slightly, though the look on his face had never changed. 

“Yes, I believe I did.” She didn’t say anything else, and walked out the door, down the path, and beginning her walk home. The sun was only just beginning to set above her, beating down on her hair as she walked. 

She hadn’t gotten the closure she’d wanted, necessarily, but she did get something; and she felt what she got was better than what she’d originally desired. She had believed that, for her to get closure, she’d have to find a way to redeem him, but that wasn’t the case; he didn’t have to seem like a good person in her mind for her to be able to get what she needed. 

When she was making her way to him, she’d believed, naively, that once she saw him, she’d be freed of all her tension and bad feelings, and she’d stop tensing when she heard a deep voice from behind her, or when something moved in the darkness, and she’d been able to sleep through the night again. All she’d really wanted is to stop thinking of him as she fell asleep, or as she went throughout her day, but she realised, standing in his parlor, that that wouldn’t happen; maybe she’d always have him in the back of his mind, maybe she’ll always tense and hold her keys tighter in her hand walking down a dark alley back to her apartment- but knowing that he didn’t care, realising that he never loved her, and that that wasn’t what love was supposed to be- filled her with a strange sense of clarity she’d never thought she’d have. 

When Christine made back to the city the next day, and the stars were just beginning to come out. She tightened her grip on her keys as she made her way to a restaurant, where her boyfriend, Raoul, was waiting. The pair had been married, once upon a dream, but Raoul was abusive, and an alcoholic. He never hit her, but he would grab her too tightly and shout at her, knowing that it would upset her greatly. They’d divorced, after four years, but stayed friends through all of it; she pushed him to find a rehab, and he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since. It took longer for her to fully trust him again, and they’d just recently begun dating again. Neither of them had ever had anyone during the time the two of them were separated, and Christine felt, and maybe she felt so naively, that her and Raoul were soulmates, destined to find each other and be together no matter what. 

He was waiting for her at the door of the restaurant, and she could just barely hear music playing from inside. He wrapped an arm around the small of her back as he brought her inside with him, seating them at a table close to the stage, where Gustave, who’d just turned twenty, stood in front of a microphone, singing jazz music for the patrons around them. She’d realised on her descent down that Gustave was her and Raoul’s child, and no part of Gustave was the Angel. She and Raoul had raised Gustave, after all, and every time Gustave moved, she saw Raoul in him; the Angel was not a part of him, at all. 

A waiter came to take their orders, and Christine smiled at him; the atmosphere around them was warm and jovial, and she realised that it was the closed thing to closure she’d get- and she was okay with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love you!


End file.
